Siren
by ladyhades
Summary: She wonders if Madoka tastes like strawberries.


**A/N : **Oops, my hand slipped. Devilish kinda Homura/Madoka. Got a tiny tiny bit naughty here, so if that's not your thing, I'm sorry. :3 I own nothing, except this Capri Sun here on my desk, and you can't have that.

* * *

><p><strong>Siren<strong>

She wonders if Madoka tastes like strawberries.

Ripe and perfect, pure pure pure with the faintest bitter undertones in the background, making it real, keeping it from becoming sickeningly sweet. Homura pauses for the barest of seconds, a sliver of _time_, and almost shudders. She knows bitter. She knows the angry copper taste that floods her mouth and weighs down her tongue, choking blinding biting until her vision swims and her bones ache.

"H-Homura-chan?"

The smile slips back on, the fear hate pain flees with it, and her hands finds a warm strip of skin between shirt and skirt. The fallen, broken goddess jumps at the contact, her fluttering heartbeat almost audible here, in this room, on this mattress, in this gilded cage Homura has built, and she knows it would be so easy to take what she wants now, because it was already easy enough to snap the branch, tear apart the nest, shake the little bird from her tree.

_Clip her wings._

Madoka's ribcage expands and shrinks with each shaking breath, eyes wide, panicked. Scared. She's so fragile and small beneath Homura, trembling and vulnerable. In fact, Homura is almost afraid to lower her weight down completely, almost afraid of crushing breaking _taking _what is hers.

Madoka's skin is pale, soft, and so easy to bruise. Homura herself is a masochist, and she likes to think that she knows a thing or two about bruising. So many loops, so many timelines, so many _failures_, all ending in blood sweat _tears_ over and over and _over, _yet each time she tried again and again and again, hoping that _this _time, it would be different. _This time_, she would save them _all. _

The very definition of insanity.

And at the root of all of this, shaking beneath Homura, the source of all that is pure and good and _true_, a girl that has sacrificed her very _being _to save all those who would rot in despair and hatred, the ultimate form of _love. _

But everything is rotten, even the best of intentions.

Homura likes to think that she had loved Madoka the best that she was capable of, the best way she knew how, by protecting this young, foolish girl from a burden she had knowingly put on her own shoulders. The night the very stars had been torn from the sky, the night this girl rewrote the very rules of the universe, Homura knew she would never, _ever _be the same.

A love so great, tainted by the ultimate form of darkness.

As she leans forward, far gentler than she thought she could have ever imagined, after being denied this love for _so long_, she remembers a story she had read about Lucifer. His love for a higher being, so great, had been his downfall, cast out of the Heavens, cursed to live in darkness.

Her lips pull Madoka into a kiss, and after two hesitant heartbeats, trembling arms wind around her neck.

_For when angels are cast out of Heaven, they become devils. _

Homura can remember bright summer days, the smell of grass and dandelions, Madoka's wide grin, a hand so soft and warm entwining with her own as she struggles to blink away the spots from the sun through thick, red rimmed glasses, desperate to keep up despite the weak heart pounding in her chest.

She can remember ruins in the rain, her heart storming as hard as the skies above, can remember the cold, heavy weight of the gun in her hands as she aims it at Madoka's Soul Gem.

She remembers the warmth of being wrapped up in Madoka's arms as the universe exploded around them, the gentle swell of the chest under her weary head when she finally broke under the weight of it all and cried for all the lifetimes of pain and loneliness. The sweet, wonderful feeling of her burdens being lifted, if only for a moment.

This dark dark room is so vastly different, and for half a second, she is sure that if she were to put a hand to her own chest, there wouldn't be a heartbeat at all.

"I-is this a dream?" Madoka asks shakily, hands tightening in Homura's hair. "I...I don't…"

Homura says nothing, because she knows that if this is anyone's dream, it is her own. The hand on Madoka's hip slides up a little higher, and she revels in the quiet gasp that slips past pink lips. She knows it won't be long now until this little bird breaks, and somewhere in the back of her mind, she knows that the only reason any of this has come to pass is because of pure wickedness and sin.

She used to have vivid daydreams, she remembers, as she steadily unbuttons Madoka's shirt, sweet, saccharine little slices of heaven, in which she had rescued Madoka, and they had the chance to grow up, grow old, _be a family_. It kept her going for so many timelines, the ghost of a vision of something that would never, _could _never be. She could have been good, she could have been everything Madoka needed, yes. She would have loved her the only way she knew how, with everything she had.

But now, but now…

Madoka's hips slide up as her skirt slides off, and Homura remembers as black feathers dance around the edges of her vision, that she's done this, she's done _all of this_ for Madoka.

And Madoka breaks, tears hot on the cool bed sheets, crying without even knowing _why_.

Her skin is far softer than anything Homura could have possibly dreamed as she kisses her way down the lithe form beneath her, down to the apex of trembling thighs, fingers dipping into fluttering heat. She notes with a curl of her lips as hands tangle up in her hair and pull _hard, _that Madoka does taste like _strawberries_.


End file.
